In The Cards
by Mourshkin
Summary: Vinculus turns the Cards of Marseille and he cannot read them. But there, stark as a raven on a bleak, white sky, is John Childermass' life. A chapter for each card and the story behind it.
1. Chapter 1

**La Lune - The Moon**

 **Representing the influence of a strong woman, often a mother. As constant as the tides and phases of the moon, the mother, la lune is stability and certainty.**

Childermass Eve [1], snow pricks the rutted black earth and is consumed by it. Joan lies curled by the reeking remains a fire in the pitiful hearth. Alone until so very recently, she does not move, only drinks in the sparse heat and sends it into the tiny shivering body that she clasps to her breast.

Whores get pregnant. That is no secret and no surprise. But Joan knows the herbs, the purgatives. Eye-bright and Sour Ramsey and she took them before and felt the life ebb from her with relief. This time she did not take them and she is not sure why, but the red, squirming boy in her arms is the result. The little hovel is silent and the night barely whispers outside. This is why she hears them coming.

Black Joan, they call her. They call her whore too, and witch [2]. That always makes her laugh. The men who openly spit at her in the street are usually the ones who find their way to her bed. And the women who glour and whisper and make signs against evil as she passes are always the ones to come to her when there is no one else to help them. Purgatives for those who do not want children. Life-givers to those who do. Wards against evil and curses for neighbours. Every shade of life passes through Joan's door and every bit of it makes her laugh. Perhaps this is why they come for her now. Because she knows all their secrets and all she does is laugh.

The ground is frost-hard and their boots make no sound. But the clouding, angry huffs of their breath and the flickering crack of their torches is all Joan needs to hear. She draws herself further into the hearth corner as the mob reaches her hovel. She whispers to the fire to go to sleep and they pound on her door. She entrusts her baby boy to keep still and silent as they come crashing in.

But all they find is shadow, though they search and thrust their torches into every corner. Just over by the hearth, there is a darkness which their fire doesn't touch. In time they give up and trudge silently back to their own homes, sure that they have routed the witch. And all the time the wee baby stayed calm and quiet. She calls him John. Whether after herself or The King, she is not sure. And she calls him Childermass, the one baby boy that survived Men's jealously and ire.

The next day Joan and her baby are gone. Away, South and East. And into the next Riding.

[1] The Childermass, or The Feast of the Holy Innocents, falls on the 28th of December and commemorates the massacre of boy children under the age of two instigated by King Herod shortly after the birth of Christ. As the Bible describes, in Matthew 2:18, King Herod ordered the death of the Innocents because he was afraid of the prophecy that the son of God would be born and become the greatest king on earth. England's oldest recorded carol, The Coventry Carol, tells the story of the Childermass.

[2] Unlike the vagabonding magicians (who were with few exceptions male and were tolerated in the main), women without means or station who kept the old knowledge and the old ways were called witches and were objects of fear and awe. In 1682, Temperance Lloyd, Mary Trembles, and Susanna Edwards were the last women in England to be executed as witches. The practice continued, however, in many parts of Europe at the time the events described above occurred.


	2. Chapter 2

**La Maison Dieu [reversed] - The House of God**

 **The House of God is a place of sanctuary, safety and refuge. Reversed, this represents a situation full of uncertainty and ill luck.**

The rain is cold for June and John shivers. His cloth-wrapped feet are sinking into the mud and water drips from the end of his nose. He should go home, if a room where you sleep crammed in with others bodies for warmth is what you call a home. John has a feeling that the streets are his real home. He eats on the streets, when he can. Works on them, when he sees a bulging pocket and the opportunity. And plays, when he remembers he there's nought else to do.

But when there's nothing to steal and no one to play with, John watches. He's watched the men stumble in and out of the bawdy house where his Ma works. Drunk going in, drunker going out. He's watched the fishwives from Hull [1] flog their stinking wears, shouting cheaper prices as the day wears on. He's watched the rent collectors bang on doors, swear, threaten and shout. He's watched the tenants plead and turn their empty purses inside out. He's watched thin hands pull pennies out of pockets and thought to himself that taking money from rich folks to feed yourself is a lot less like theft than taking money from those who cannot pay.

Today, people slog through the growing mud and pass unwatched by John. Today, John watches stone. Soot-grey and sweating mould, the stone wall of the police station and holding house is unreadable. But John watches as if he can see right through into the cell beyond. He imagines Al sitting inside, dry and cold and devastated. With a child's sense of hope, John thinks that if he stares hard enough, Al will know he's there. The Raven King can talk to stone, Ma said so. So why can't John speak _through_ stone? But even if he could speak, John doesn't know what he would say.

'Know some-un, do ye?'

The old [2] woman stands beside him and motions with her head towards the station. John is shocked that he did not see her arrive. John sees everything. He looks at her, thinking. If you don't know what to say, it's best to think first - that's what Ma says. But the women doesn't seem to have much patience.

'What they get? Floggin'? Fine? Hangin'?'

'Army's goin' ta take him.' John hasn't spoken all day and now that he does, the words came out broken and croaked. He is embarrassed, angered, by the emotion his voice betrays and resolves to say no more. The crone pulls her tattered shawl about and sucks her teeth.

'Could he no have pleaded clergy?'[3]

John shakes his head and bites his thumb.

'Already had one, had he? Your big brother, is he?'

He hesitates. He shares no blood with Al. But he shares food and a bed and an occupation and his Ma. Al looks out for him and steps in when John fights with the big boys. Maybe Al is his brother, after all. John doesn't know the answer, so he doesn't speak. The woman shrugs and pats him on the shoulder.

'He might come back. Heard some folk do.'

She walks off, leaving John to stare at the wall in peace. For a moment at least, until his view is blocked by the flank of a dark horse and the booted leg of it's rider.

'You, boy. Can you hold a horse?'

This is a question John knows the answer to but telling a gentleman to fuck off isn't always the wisest move. So again, he says nothing. The gentleman dismounts and hands the reigns to John regardless.

'Hold this until I return and you'll get a nice, shiny ha'penny, boy.'

The gentleman strides off and John looks up at the clouds. They show no sign of shifting and now its getting dark. He doesn't want to leave Al, but he doesn't want to follow some toff's orders either. A smile crooks his lip. Well, if Al can hear him through the stone - at least this'll give him a laugh.

He drops the reigns and smacks the horse hard on the rump. It canters off down the street and John saunters home in the other direction.

[1] The Fishwives' husbands and sons rise early, before light or lark and row their small boats into the Humber estuary. The women wait, skirts tucked above their knees to wade out and carry their men ashore (to save them getting wet) and pull the boats to land. They then gut the fish and carry them in wicker creels on their backs to the surrounding village markets. The hotter the weather, the cheaper the fish will get. John knows when the fish will turn, when the stink will turn to rot, and he knows just when to buy.

[2] When you're eight, everyone over 20 looks old. By 25, they look positively ancient.

[3] Pleading Clergy was a law introduced more than a hundred years earlier, to protect churchmen from the death sentence. By the late 18th century, it had been twisted to act as a pardon for first offence, letting a minor offender off with an R-shaped brand on their thumb and no second chance.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Nine of Swords**

 **A card of ill omen. The querent may be deceived or tricked in some way. This card represents a catastrophic event.**

The Faerie Roads are closed. Everybody knows this, but nobody can tell John why. So he must find out for himself. He fights his way through tangles of briar and willow, following the old tracks. He follows every path anyone ever called a Faerie Road. Sometimes he feels a thrum, like the dancing of a hundred feet, shaking the air around him but not once in his search has John met another soul, until today.

The crumpled old woman sits opposite him. She looks ancient, lips caving in over missing teeth, hair scant and white and skin sagging over a bent frame. But she _feels_ young, and he finds himself talking to her like he would a child. John found the woman in a clearing on an old Road, shelling hazelnuts. She sat on the grass, cross-legged and grinned up at John, no guile in her face. The woman gives John the same look now as the odd pair tuck into bread and shellfish in a dark, noisy public house.

'Why were you on t'Faerie Road?' John tries to ask softly, to avoid being overheard and also to avoid startling the woman who seems to quiver like a young bird at ever loud noise.

'Dun want me where I was. Too old, they said. Dun like old folks, do they?' The woman does not look up as she speaks. Instead she rips her portion of bread into small pieces before eating it carefully.

'Who? Faeries? Is that who you were with? Were you in Faerie before, or somewhere else?'

He has been trying to get the woman to talk all evening but he is not sure she understands him. The woman looks ruefully at John and does not reply. Instead, she pops another scrap of bread in their mouth and a smile spreads back across their face as she eats it. John cannot fathom this person.

He had thought, or perhaps hoped was a more accurate term, the she was a Stolen Child [1], but John feels none of the fluttering under his skin that seems to warn him of magic. There is none of the thrill he feels when he lets the shadows close around him. No, the more John talks with the woman, the more he begins to think she is one of the King's Own [2]. He stays a bit longer and talks with the woman, but they go no further on the subject of faeries. He soon finds it later than he thought, makes his excuses and leaves.

Navigating, with some uncertainty, the dark, sloping streets of Staithes [3] John begins to feel something is not right. With creeping dread, he fingers the copper ha'penny and the iron nail in his pocket [4]. He tells himself he is imagining things, that the footsteps following him are merely echoes of his own. As he rounds a corner he stops to check - the footsteps carry on and they are very close. He is disappearing into the shadow of an alleyway when someone grabs him by the back of the collar.

'And where are you off to, young one?' John tries to wrench free but the the grasp holds firm. He twists around and recognises his assailant with a sinking heart. Even in the few days of being in Staithes John has heard of the infamous Captain Broughton. A recruiter [5] for the Duke of York's infantry regiment and a man who doesn't like to be refused. John doesn't say anything, as that seems safest. Captain Broughton is not deterred, he turns to the two soldiers who accompany him.

'Seems a likely lad, eh boys? Ready and willing to fight for his King. Shall we sign him up?' At this John pulls himself free but the two soldiers grab his arms and hold him firm before he can flee.

'What? Not keen?' Captain Broughton leans in menacingly. 'Refusing to serve your King is treason, my lad.' John keeps his face as still as stone.

'Oh I'll fight for my King, any day as he wants me.' The soldiers look somewhat surprised, it was rare to get so willing a recruit, but John's mouth twists into an sneer.

'But I'll be damned the day I fight for yours.' As fury builds in Broughton's face, John begins to realise that, however true that statement might have been, it was not the wisest thing to say. As a rifle butt to the temple sends his senses ricocheting about his skull, he realises it was a bloody stupid.

[1] A Changeling is the creature left behind when faeries steal a human baby who they desire because of its sweet nature. This baby becomes a Stolen Child. In Faerie, no time seems to pass and so the Child never ages mentally, keeping the good disposition the Faeries value. In folk tales, it has been said that when a Stolen Child becomes too old to be amusing to their captors, it will be discarded back into the Christian world.

[2] The King's Own were also called Naturals, or Children of God, in other parts of England. Sometimes subject to ridicule or pity, people often described them as 'not all there' or 'away with the faeries'. John Childermass felt no pity towards any such folk he met - when had pity ever helped a single soul?

[3] Staithes is a busy port in the East Riding. Crammed on steep slopes either side of a river, the buildings as close and the streets winding. Joan had recently relocated them to the coast, the idea being that sailors ashore were always looking to spend their coin, or lose it, one way or another.

[4] Both are charms against ill luck. The coin against accusations of vagrancy - which can lead to the stockade, a whipping or worse. The nail against faeries - a belief exists that they cannot abide the touch of iron and will not harm one in possession of the metal, there is no reliable record of this being tested.

[5] Army press gangs - forcefully taking men into military service - were technically illegal by the time John was 16, though the practice was still allowed in the navy. However, through a liberal supply of alcohol or a bit of intimidation, a recruiter could very effectively increase his volunteer numbers. And Broughton needed as many as he could get - the French Revolutionists were invading the Low Countries and Britain had just committed itself to the Allied cause.


	4. Chapter 4

**La Vale de Baton - The Vale of Wands**

 **This card may represent a messenger or the querent themselves. In all cases, it portends travel, a quest in search of something or adventure**.

'See voo play. Ah rettay. Jih nih swee pah un sole dat.'

'No laddie, no. Listen and try agin. _S'il vous plais, arrettez. Je ne suis pas un soldat. Je ne veux pas me battre.'_

'That's what I said, Rob.' John is cold [2] and covered in dust. He legs ache from the enforced march. The ill-fitting, red uniform jacket makes his neck itch and he longs to take it off. He did in fact do so yesterday, and was flogged for his trouble. In short, nothing about his situation puts John in the mood for learning French from a Scotsman.

'You might be saying the sounds, but if they canna unnerstaun your accent, they'll no mind whit you're saying.' John shifts the musket that hangs strange and unnatural on his shoulder and tries to take his fellow infantryman's mind off the French lesson.

'How does an old body like you know French, anyway? Who taught you?' Rob snorts.

'No one taught it me lad, just picked it up. Anybody wi' half a mind and and ear can pick up anything at the docks. I'm a porter y'see. Or I was, onyways.'

'Which docks?'

'Leith.' At John's uncertain expression the older man clarifies. 'That'd be Edinburgh to yous from the South - no point trying to explain the difference.' [3] The Scot means nothing by his remark, but it riles John none the less.

'I'm no Southerner, I'm Uskglass' man through and through.' Rob shakes his head.

'Now, now, I meant nothing like that. I just meant you lived so far from my hame, that you'd no be likely to have heard of it. Now I'm too young to remember our King [4] myself, but I'm a proud Scot and I wouldna take too kindly to being called something else. No, lad, you're of the North and so am I - that should be enough, eh?' John nods his head, which suddenly feels heavy with thoughts of home. Rain and green hills, stone and rough land. Rob's chuckle brings him back out of his reverie.

'What?'

'Ha, well I wis going tae say that 'je ne suis pas anglais' might actually be the most useful bit of French I know but... I fear it willna do me much good.' The Scot, suddenly serious, looks John straight in the eye. 'I'm going to die here, you know.' A shiver runs under John's skin. He laughs at Rob's dour statement but inexplicably he believes it.

'Aye, you can laugh. But my granny knew when she wis going tae die, and my mither as weel. And I'm going to die here, John.'

'Joan, my mother, said that you can't tell the future, even with magic.'

'No, thats true. I've no knowledge of how or when. I just know it won't be getting back hame.' John has to laugh again.

'So is it true, that all Scots see is the worst in things. Or is it just yourself?' Rob chuckles slightly at the jibe and seems to brighten.

'Aye well maybe its just me. But I'll tell you one thing, John Childermass. You're too sharp by half to let this bloody war get you. When you see your chance, laddie, take it. Lose the uniform as soon as you can. Get yourself on a boat and get out of here. If there's one thing I'm positive about, its that you'll make it.'

Rob's confidence fans a flame inside him. John determines that he will make it home, he is so sure of it, he can see the Yorkshire hills, feel the rain, hear the wind crashing in the trees. He tells Rob this and the two soldiers spend the rest of the day's march talking of their homes. The colour of the heather of the Yorkshire moors, the sun rising over the waters of the Firth. They argue about who's countrymen can drink the most, who can fight the roughest, who can sing the bawdiest songs. They talk and talk until in the grey evening light, the road they march along could be leading them back home. Later, John reflects that it was a good last conversation to have.

Rob is one of the first to fall in the ambush. Musket-ball to the head and he drops like a wet sack. And John falls with him. Around them, men shout and fire and draw swords. They trample over John and another falls, wounded, over his legs, but he does not move and he does not cry out.

 _I am dead, I am dead._ He thinks to no one in particular.

As the other men in his regiment retreat and the French army pursue them, John is left with the groans of fallen soldiers. And the scavengers. They kill any man not already dead and loot the bodies [5]. From his position on the ground, face down and eyes shut, John can see nothing but he hears the men talking in what he guesses in French. One even comes up and rolls him over with a rough hand. John keeps completely still, he does not breath.

 _I am dead, I am dead._ You're not interested and you're going away.

Uncannily, it seems to work. The scavenger does not stop to search John, or even take the rifle that still hangs from his shoulder. He is simply dumped back down in the dirt and left. John stays dead until it is dark and he is very cold. When not a sound breaks the night, John struggles up, he does not look at Rob or the other men around him, he does not want to see. He is very grateful for the dark.

When you see your chance, take it. And lose the uniform.

The itching red coat is left in the dirt, as is the rifle. Keeping the North Star to his right, John walks West and homeward. As he walks, he practices his French.

 _'Je ne suis pas un soldat. Je ne veux pas me battre.'_

[1] This translates roughly as, 'Please, stop. I'm not a soldier. I do not want to fight.'

[2] Despite marching since dawn, the cold February air was biting. John Childermass was not actually in France at all. The French Revolutionary Army had advanced into Southern Holland in first months of 1793, defeating the Dutch army without effort. The Dutch had called on their allies, the British, who had sent a force under the command of the King's son, the Duke of York. This force took only nine days to mobilise. Perhaps this is why Captain Broughton was so keen to get new recruits.

[3] Edinburgh, the capital city of Scotland is, rather unusually, not located on a major river or the coast. The city's heart lies a good few miles from the Water of Leith, the port where all trade by sea passes through to reach the city. The two towns have grown to merge and the boundaries have blurred, but locals still maintain their separateness.

[4] The king that Rob refers to is, of course, not the Raven King - who never held dominion over Scotland - but the Young Pretender, Prince Charlie who had tried to claim the Scottish crown from the British in the failed war of 1745. Though almost 50 years ago, the defeat still held repercussions for the Scots and many still called the Young Pretender King.

[5] Taking spoils of war from the corpses of fallen enemies was an accepted as part of, and often the largest part of, a soldier's income.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Ten of Batons [reversed] - The Ten of Wands**

 **This can represents adversity, a challenge or test of the querent's character and will. The card usually means the querent will fail. Reversed, it means success in the face of adversity**.

The night after the ambush and finally John reaches the coast. He has drunk from streams, pinched chickens eggs and bread from a farm house. He has walked and walked. He knows he needs to eat, needs to sleep, needs to get warm. The rush of the sea swells hope in his heart. He scrambles down the rough hillside and breathes with relief as his feet sink into soft sand. Just the other side of the water, is home. But he still has to cross the water.

With nowhere else to go, he begins to follow the shoreline North. The coast is winding, dipping suddenly into hidden coves. It is in one of these coves, Johns sees the fire. Voices carrying, raucous and loud through the dark. He casts his eyes out to sea and sees the dark outline of a gaff-rigged cutter [1]. Smugglers, John decides. No one else would hide in a cove, anchored at night on a war-torn coastline. And smugglers they prove to be. As John nears them group of men seated around the fire, he hears English voices. Cornish, Southern and Northern accents grate against one another, they wear no uniform and barrels of apparent contraband are massed in a pile by their fire. John knows he's found his ticket home. He approaches silently and when he is close enough, lets the firelight hit him.

'Need an extra hand aboard?' He asks as casually as he can manage. The men are on their feet and drawing weapons in an instant. John puts his hands out, palms forward - the universal sign of pacification. He is skilled at keeping calm and making others calm in bad situations. 'I've got no weapon, and I don't want anything except to work for my passage home.' The truth told frankly seems to let the smugglers relax. One of them, a short, light-haired man steps forward - pistol in hand. The firelight catches his finely and fashionably cut clothes, he seems a class above his companions and has the bearing of one used to being in charge.

'And what do we want with a nobody who skulks in the dark? For all we know you could be a French spy, or a British deserter.' At this, John laughs as he lights on the perfect way to dissuade the man of his suspicions.

'Je ne suis pas un soldat.' Judging by the gentleman's guffawed response, John assumes his French accent has not improved.

'Well you're not French thats for sure, no self-respecting froggie would murder his language to such a degree.' He gentleman cocks his head, with sudden curiosity. 'But if you're not a spy and you're not a soldier, what are you?' As usual, John opts for the direct and honest response.

'A thief.'

The gentlemen laughs again and shakes his head. 'You say that without shame - you do realise stealing is against the law?' John looks the man dead in the eye.

'So is smuggling, as I'm sure you're aware.'

'What makes you so sure we're smugglers?'

'Why else would a group of Englishmen be sitting at night on a foreign shore with a pile of unmarked casks and a black-painted cutter waiting for them just off shore?'

A slow grin spreads on the man's face. 'You're sharp, boy. We need wits about us in a job like this. What's your name?'

'John Childermass. What's yours?'

'I said you were sharp, boy, but have a care you don't cut yourself. That's no way to speak to your superior.' John nods slowly as if thinking.

'Thank you for the advice, I will remember it in case I ever meet a man who is not my equal.'

A collective breath is taken by the the group of smugglers, they've never heard someone speak to their master in such a way. But the gentleman only laughs.

'No shame, no fear and a humour too - grab a tub [2], Childermass, there's work to be done.' At this the rest of the smugglers leapt into action, working ant-like to transport the barrels to two small rowing boats pulled up on the sand. John notes how the men do not speak as they work, nor joke or smile. So he has been lucky, the gentleman must be a hard master. He will need to watch his step.

Sweat is soaking his clothes and turning cold in the night breeze as the final tubs are loaded onto the waiting cutter and the anchor weighed. Now almost dizzy with fatigue, John leans on the rigging and stares into the darkness the hides the English coast.

'Its a good business, Childermass. We're coming into the golden age of this lark [3].' The gentleman stands beside him, entirely unfatigued by the work he has merely observed. 'Its a thrill and an adventure, but truthfully no line for a respectable man. The operation is running itself and no longer needs my supervision. No, my place is ashore. What do you say Childermass?'

John has assumed the gentleman is merely thinking aloud and has plucked the last stolen egg from his pocket. He lightly taps a hole in the side of the shell, shrugs his shoulders in reply to the question and sucks the raw egg out. He crushes the eggshell in his hand and lets the pieces fall in to the sea below him [4].

'I don't know about you, but I'd be glad enough to have my feet on solid English ground.' John's reply is true enough, though he says it with no inflection. Still the man seemed slightly annoyed by his tone, a bit of cheek from an inferior is an amusing novelty but continued insolence cannot be tolerated.

'I've not a clue why, Childermass, but I like you. Learn a bit of respect, learn to call me Sir and perhaps I'll find you a position when we reach England. Otherwise, you can stay on this ship and if you try to desert, I'll have you thrown overboard halfway across the Channel.'

John looks down at the tiny white pieces of shell as they disappear below the rolling waves. He thinks of home and the stone and the earth and the rain. He grits his teeth.

'Yes, Sir.'

[1] The Dutch-style rigging of two triangular sails was a more manoeuvrable design and beginning to increase in fashion. Gaff rigging allowed sailors to tack (to sail against the wind) where as the square rigging favoured by military and revenue vessels only allowed the ship to sail in the direction the wind was blowing.

[2] Tubs, wooden barrels, were the usual containers used to smuggle spirits and wine. They usually weighed around 45lb and the tubmen who carried the smuggled goods to and from the ships could carry two at a time over long distances.

[3] The government raised taxes to fund wars and the Revolutionary War seemed set to last a while. The longer the war lasted, the more expensive luxury and staple goods would become - so the demand for cheaper, smuggled items would increase. On top of this, the British Royal Navy took all the best seamen, leaving the old and unskilled to man the revenue ships that patrolled the English coast to intercept smugglers.

[4] You must entirely crush an eggshell before discarding it, especially near water. Witches can use unbroken shells as boats in which they row out to sea and call up storms to drown unsuspecting sailors. John has his doubts about this story, but he has spent his entire life narrowly avoiding storms and he is not about to conjure one up now.


	6. Chapter 6

**La Papesse - The High Priestess**

 **A card of strength. This card represents endurance and the struggle to maintain one's position despite trying circumstances.**

As it transpires, John Childermass is not an easy person to find a position for. He is too sharp for manual labour, too surly for serving at table, too odd-looking for a footman and knows nothing about respectable society or how to behave in it. At times John's backwardness in these matter drives his new master, Sir -, to his wits end. What can you do with a servant who will not bow?

However, Sir - comes to find Childermass' oddities a welcome variant from polite society and keeps him close. The young gentleman, as may be surmised from his smuggling, likes stepping outside the boundaries of convention. It thrills him. The parties he throws are no exception.

Copious quantities of imported wine and sherry are consumed, even gin though it is thought rather vulgar. Gentleman and women are bedecked in smuggled Belgian lace and powdered from bosom to hairline in the most outrageous fashion. Betting, gambling, cards and duels abound. And the music, oh the music. The waltz [1] is a particular favourite.

This brief outline adequately summarises the party through which John now circulates. Upwards of a hundred guests throng every room and hallway, it is loud and _hot_. John pulls at the neck of his ill fitting livery and is little surprised by the speed at which the drinks disappear from the large silver tray he holds. He is bustled and ignored as he tries to make his way around the room. This is the last time he is going to be a servant, John thinks bitterly.

He hasn't been paid in over two months and even a roof over your head doesn't make up for being treated like dirt. What would his mother say, to see him bowing and scraping to the gentry. Sir - is purposely withholding wages, John thinks wryly, trying to keep him from leaving and spilling the truth about the smuggling to the nearest customs officer. The idea that money could motivate him to degrade himself like this makes John laugh. He's been penniless before and could manage again.

No, the only reason that John stays in Sir -'s bloody awful house is because of its name. Raven Hall [2]. John doesn't believe in serendipity, but this to is too much of a coincidence to ignore. He'd started on this mess of a journey searching for the Faerie Roads, trying to find a path to the King. And now he's landed in a house named after that same King [3]. So John holds his tongue when he can manage and bows as little as he can get away with. There is something more to come, he can feel it in his blood.

As he makes his way around the room, John becomes more and more aware of his blood. The way it dances under his skin, his pulse beating out an unfamiliar rhythm. He feels no fear nor excitement but his heart beat continues to speed up. Now his breath begins to match the unworldly beat, coming in uneven, withering gasps. Perhaps it is the heat of the crowd. John starts to push his way towards the door, the remaining glasses of brandy punch clattering dangerously against one another. He is almost out of the room when a drunken shout calls him back.

'Childermass! Childer _mass_!'

He barely hears Sir -'s call through the blood roaring in his ears. He hears better when the gentleman comes and stands close to him, with a pally hand on his shoulder and says in a tipsy voice,

'Check on Bertie, would you Childermass? He's a stuffed shirt, my cousin, but I want him to have _fun_! That's why I invited him in the first place! And he's probably run off to the library to hide again. So go and get him and bring him back to the party. Try and get him to have a drink too!'

'Who, Sir?' John asks dazedly.

' _Gilbert of course!_ Oh well Mr. Norrell, I suppose you should call him. I bet my boots he's in the library, so go fetch him and bring him back.' Childermass nods in assent and turns to go as Sir - calls out,

'And don't let him pinch any of my books!'

Childermass stumbles away, glad to get out of the heat but even as the crowd thins as then altogether disappears, he feels no better. In fact, by the time he reaches the library door every light seems blinding and his heartbeat is crashing in his ears. He pushes open the door to the room with effort. John catches the briefest glimpse of a short man with a startled expression clutching a book. Then his head is filled with aching light and the sound of splintering glass.

When Childermass comes back to his senses, his prone body aches and he is surrounded by shattered glasses. The little man has disappeared from the library but the book he was clutching remains, lying abandoned on the floor. John's literacy is functional at best, he cannot fathom its title while his head stilll pounds, but he is in no doubt as to its contents. Nothing else could have had such an unworldly feeling. It is a book of magic and John thrills at the sudden realisation - the man who was holding it must be a magician.

[1] The 3/4 beat of the waltz was still a relatively new introduction to England and was still considered rather too risqué by the most polite and prudish in society. This had little to do with the rhythm and more to do with just how close partners stood as they danced together. There was altogether too much touching involved.

[2] Raven Hall, the vast costal mansion newly built in the tiny Yorkshire village of Ravenscar is not actually owned by Sir -, he had merely rented it for the season due to its ideal location from which to operate smuggling excursions. The hall was in fact owned by Captain Childs who had taken his family to the Continent for a summer tour.

[3] In this instance, Childermass is actually wrong. The name of Raven Hall does not derive from the Raven King. It is much, much older. The site of the Hall once held a Roman fort, and then a Viking fortification. The name of the Hall, and the village of Ravenscar, comes from its previous Scandinavian inhabitants. Many Vikings bore as a war banner, the triangular flag of the Raven. The raven on the flag was the first of many that would descend up upon their enemies. The rest were were not of fabric but flesh and feather and would gather on battlefields to feast upon the fallen.


	7. Chapter 7

**La Rove de Fortune - The Wheel of Fortune**

 **For ill, or for good, La Rove de Fortune will always signify a dramatic change of circumstance or fortune**.

The livery from John's previous employment still doesn't fit him, but he has not thought to find himself new clothing. Apart, that is, from an old black coat won in a card game. He had searched the party frantically, trying to find the short gentleman who had performed magic, only to find the man had raced off in his carriage without a word of farewell. Some madness, surely, had seized Childermass for when he heard the man was gone, he simply walked out after him - the mysterious book [1] still in hand. He has travelled a great deal of Yorkshire in search of the elusive magician he glimpsed at Raven Hall. He finds his answers in Whitby. You can find a lot of things in Whitby.

'Do you know anything of a Mr. Gilbert Norrell?'

John asks this question in every town he passes until it falls from his tongue as naturally as swollen fruit from a tree. He asks it so often he has stopped expecting a response. So when, John enquires in damp, low-ceilinged pub and receives a disgusted snort in response, he is so shocked that he merely repeats the question.

'Do you know anything of a Mr. Gilbert Norrell?'

'Oh I know of him, for sure. Though I wish I bloody didn't.' As if this is the end of the conversation, the man turns back to his flagon of ale and upends the vessel in the manner of those who wish to drown sorrows. Childermass, frustrated, regards the man as he drinks. His hair is cut short, like a working man's, but his speech carries no strong accent, his hands are remarkably pale and smooth and he sits with unintentional good posture. A servant, then. Most likely a footman or valet [2], and a bitter one at that - what ill could this Norrell have done to the man? John's mind comes alive with imaginings of enchantments and curses straight the magical stories of his childhood.

'He has harmed you in some way?' Childermass asks, but the man only snorts derisively.

'Harmed? Mr. Norrell couldn't harm a week-old kitten. 'Cept perhaps by boring it to death, or moaning at it till the poor thing topped itself.' John is momentarily wrong-footed. This description does not fit his idea of a great, practical magician. Then he has to laugh - of course, the one real magician he has come across and the man's a whining bore - typical.

'No lad, whatever your interest in , I'd advise you to drop it. I wish someone had told me the same thing - the pay's good, mind, but he's so bloody particular, especially about his sodding books, that you'll get nothing but grief. Wish I'd quit sooner than I did.' So the servant has left his post, an idea billows in John's mind like wind catching the sails of a ship.

'Thank you for your advice, but I've a mind to ignore it. What position did you hold in Mr. Norrell's household? Do you think the job will still be going free?' The man shakes his head in amused disbelief but describes his duties as steward [3] and gives Childermass directions to 's residence. The ex-servant finishes his ale and stands to leave.

'Think well, lad, before you make your choice.'

It is only once John is alone that the importance of this choice becomes apparent. He could, should, go back to Staithes and try to trace his mother. And there he would return to his old occupation, where no man was his master and he lived by keeping his wits sharp. Or. Or he could follow this thread and pull at it till it unravels. Pull at it till he finds magic, Faerie, the King. But to get close to Norrell he must bow and scrape and live a servant's life.

Having a master and obeying orders grates harshly on him. But John Childermass laughs at everything, even his own pride. Perhaps he will pull the thread, perhaps. He wavers.

...

Newly inked cards in his pocket, John Childermass approaches the grey face of Hurtfew Abbey. He stops at the door and pulls one from his coat. The Wheel of Fortune. Again and again he has pulled this card, through the cold tramp from Whitby to the house. A change of place, a change of occupation, a change of luck. Either good or ill, the card does not say. But as his loud knock is answered by a timid servant, he cannot hold back a smile. John Childermass spins his own wheel, and it turns in his favour.

'I'm here to speak with Gilbert Norrell. Tell him it's about a book from Raven Hall.'

[1] That book was, in fact, Ormskirk's Revelations of Thirty-Six Worlds. The same copy which remained in Childermass' possession even after he left Hurtfew Abbey for the last time. The magic Norrell was attempting to perform was the summoning spell Strange used later with much success. But the spell had failed to summon the Raven King, as Norrell had wished - perhaps it brought him John Childermass instead.

[2] Menservants of the upper levels were generally selected for their height, good looks and fine bearing. It was taken as a given that such men would wear wigs, and thus keep their hair short. A footman without a wig was like having a drawing room without a carpet - it was not respectable.

[3] In larger houses, stewards were employed to oversee the staff and the running of the household. They ranked higher in position that either butler or housekeeper. The size of Mr. Norrell's staff did not particularly warrant hiring such a person, but his anti-social tendencies made a steward absolutely vital.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Two of Coins**

 **This card signifies that steady, profitable work is ahead. It is not a card of wild success, but one of fulfilment.**

Steaming water rattles from the kettle's spout above coals that crack and glow. Clout wrapped around his hand, Childermass pours last kettle of water into the wooden bath. Indulgence is not a word the John readily applies to himself. After he got over the initial shock of earning a decent wage, he began to split the money evenly between Joan and a strong box hidden deep in the woods behind Hurtfew. He does not know what he is saving for yet, he has a roof over his head, clothes on his back and food provided. That is usually indulgence enough.

But this is auld year's night, the last day of the year, and Childermass' first time to himself since he became a man of business. The servants are all gone - home or to parties at neighbouring houses, welcoming the new year in. Norrell does not hold with such rituals, wastes of time that serve no purpose, and has gone to bed early.

Childermass stays alone and he allows himself the single luxury of a hot bath. As he pulls off his nightshirt and lays it on a chair, previous years' ends rise in his memory like steam. It took his three years to recover from the shame of being a servant, of having a better lifestyle than his family and find Black Joan. It took him six years for Norrell to trust him enough to find his own way to the library, to even handle books.

He has witnessed further magic and he is hooked like a worm. He has grown more used to it now, but still takes the precaution of leaning against things just in case the magic-rush spins him another merry, dizzy dance to the floor. Constantly fainting does not fit with his part. No, Childermass must be calm, constant and dependable. It is his only guarantee of learning more magic. That thought protects him from Norrell's strange moods and demands.

But the clock's hands are inching to midnight, Norrell is most likely asleep, and Childermass could be only person in the world. Cracking fire and shifting coals are the only noise. Water steams in the wooden tub, waiting for him, cooling. For once, he has nothing to think about and nothing to do.

His foot tingles in protest as it touches the water but he forces himself to plunge it in. The longer he waits to acclimatise, the shorter and colder is bath will be. He sinks into the bath, a groan barely escapes his lips, would only be heard to one at very intimate distance. No one would be welcomed that close, solitude is Childermass' haven. Wavering between servant and confidante, no one - not the other servants, and certainly not , seem to know how to treat him.

This night he does not need to think about appearances, does not need to plot or weigh his options.

He bends his knees fully, submerging his shoulder, neck, head into the bath. Water and the sound of his own rushing pulse fill his ears. Hair floats around him, weightlessly dancing like silk strands in a summer wind. John rolls his shoulders slowly, muscles crackling as the tension eases. Another groan, barely a breath, escapes as bubbles to the surface of the bath.

A bell.

Two rings, filter distorted and distant through the water. A second groan escapes, leaving little air in Childermass' lungs but he stays submerged.

The bell again. At least six rings this time.

Aching for breath, he brakes the surface with a gasp and glowers at the bell. Its the one for the bedroom, Norrell of course.

'No. You should be asleep and so should I. There's no reason to call me.' Childermass says grimly.

Bell begins to ring again, but he sinks back into bath with a roll of the eyes. Norrel is bound to give up soon. The divet probably has his nose buried in a book and has no idea what time it is. He will realise soon, surely, and stop.

And the bell does stop. He relaxes into the lukewarm water. Peace.

A sudden tightness seizes his muscles, as if he were ready to spring, fight or flee. But his heart does not race and no panic crosses Childermass' brow. Only confusion. With a yelp, he jerks to his feet, wobbling slightly at the sudden movement. He did not choose to do that. Confusion is replaced with annoyance. A rope twists in his stomach, snaking around his body, pulling at his limbs. He cannot see the rope, but he can feel it's pull, taut and urging.

Childermass feels the familiar world-twisting tingle of magic and growls, 'Norrell, you bas-'

The rope jerks, pulling him forward sharply, he barely manages to keep balance has he stumbles out of the bath tub. Another jerk and he is being pulled out of the kitchen. He twists, fighting the pull and for a second it gives. Enough time to grab the nightshirt he had set to warm by the fire before he is pulled again, into the dark corridors of Hurtfew Abbey.

His feet and fingers are stone, his teeth rattle like bare birch twigs and wet hair has seeped into his sodden shirt by the time Childermass reaches the master bedroom. At the door the invisible rope slackens and Norrell distracted voice calls, 'Come in, Childermass.'

He enters and sees Norrell in his high backed armchair, head buried in one of a multitude of books that strew the reading table in front of him. The chair is pulled close to the fire, but the grate lies dead, the coals grey and cold.

'I am close to something Childermass, very close and I cannot stop now. I am cold.'

This apparently is all the instruction he will get, so Childermass walks leadenly to the fireplace and grips the mantel piece as he kneels. The floor still tips slightly, even though the invisible rope has gone. He gathers a few pieces of discarded parchment, covered in Norrell's spidering hand and crossed out diagrams. He takes a little of his annoyance out on the papers as he crumples them into fire lighters. Next he arranges kindling into a small mountain, enclosing the paper and reaches for the tinderbox. It is not there.

Childermass curses internally. Of course it's not there - the maid keeps it with her and carries it between rooms as she lights the fire in the morning. It's all the way back downstairs at in the kitchen. A thought flickers in he brain and his eyes turn to the candlestick on the reading table. The thought dies as he sees the dead stub with a burnt out wick. The ambient light that allows Norrell to read apparently has no source. That explains his continued dizziness at least. He considers asking Norrell to light the fire, but dismisses the idea, such a menial task he would surely refuse.

Frustration burns in his gut and a hot itch makes its way down Childermass' icy fingers. He leans forward on his knees, hand reaching for the pile of kindling. John's eyes narrow as he feels for an old memory.

He is cold and wet, a dark wind full of thin rain wraps him in its cloak. And Joan is leaning over a pile of twigs and leaves, sheltering it. She snaps her fingers and flames push back the darkness. She leans back, cold and shaking.

Feeling the last remaining heat in the pit of his stomach, Childermass brings it all to his fingers.

Snap.

Fire billows in the kindling as grey smoke curls into the chimney. As the sticks catch, Childermass gingerly places two small logs on top to catch the flames. It is only then that John feels the aching chill that threatens to split his bones like ice in cracked stone. He slumps, shaking, into the mantelpiece and grins. Fire dances in his off white teeth.

Norrell swallows. Childermass can tell he's being watched but he does not look up. Norrell swallows again.

'Did you-?'

'Yes.'

'Ah. I see.'

'What say you, sir?'

'I-ah, I should say this rather changes things, Childermass.'

John lets his grin fade and pulls heat from the fire back into his body. He finds his feet and turns to Norrell.

'I am rather-' he struggles from the word '- used up, . Will there be anything more tonight?'

'Why, yes, certainly. I mean, that is to say no. No, nothing more tonight Childermass, you may go.'

John turns to leave, an edge of disappointment chilling his victory.

'But, ah, Childermass?' He turns back, face blank and hopeful. 'Tomorrow. There will be more tomorrow, I am sure.'

A corner of his mouth quirks for an instant and then returns to place. Childermass sketches a bow and leaves the room. A new fire has been lit, and he will not let it die


End file.
